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airgiodslv.livejournal.com) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
fellowshippers2003-08-07 03:30 pm
airgiodslv.livejournal.com) wrote in fellowshippers2003-08-07 03:30 pm
Pinprick
Title: Pinprick
Pairing: SB/OB
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: This is a complete work of fiction, no disrespect intended.
Notes: This story is a response to the ‘Sean’s tattoo’ challenge thrown out by Cally. It didn’t turn out at all the way I had expected, and I’m not sure whether to apologize for that or not. I am indebted greatly to Cyndi for editing through my muddled tenses and trimming away my extra words. Thank you.
Archived: CTB 3/23/03
“You have a hole in your shirt.” Those are the first words out of Orlando’s mouth, said with an outrageous grin that quickly fades to an uncertain smile. Sean isn’t quite sure of how to respond to this statement. He had been expecting something more mundane, a standard welcome with an opening for polite query, perhaps. Trivialities. Instead, he gets Orlando, with his blunt, honest, uncensored thoughts, reminding Sean of all the things that Orlando is and is not, and Sean’s greeting and exchange of pleasantries is forgotten.
He finally responds, with a smile because he hasn’t thought of any words yet, and looks down at himself. He is still in comfortable worn cotton, shirt and slacks, not quite warm enough to protect him from the oppressive chill of the city. He isn’t dressed for New York, really. Orlando is, looking sleek and trendy, although he’s probably not much warmer than Sean.
“Right here,” Orlando says, pointing to Sean’s chest, and yes, there is a tiny hole there, a pinprick of skin showing through. He looks up and shrugs: still smiling, still not speaking. Orlando smiles back, looking less and less confident with each passing moment that Sean remains silent. He tries to step away, which finally breaks Sean’s paralysis and brings him to act, reaching out to pull Orlando into an awkward hug. It stays awkward, even after Orlando relaxes slightly into Sean’s embrace, because there is still a lot between them and most of it isn’t comfortable.
Orlando smells like cucumber melon, a fresh scent seemingly at odds with his upscale clothes. It clashes with Sean’s Dolce & Gabbana, and Sean suddenly feels as if he is the one who smells wrong: forced masculinity and overpowering chemicals. Orlando doesn’t seem to notice, or if he does he is too polite to say anything. Or, Sean thinks with a grim smile, he’s afraid to push his luck after the shirt comment and is saving it up for later.
The hug is beyond awkward now; both of them are standing stiffly in each other’s arms, tense and frozen. Finally Sean lets go. As soon as he does, Orlando is several feet away, arms crossed defensively over his chest, closing himself off. Sean isn’t really surprised, but he is slightly disappointed.
They take a cab to the tattoo parlor, because Orlando claims that it is too far to walk. The only noise comes from Orlando’s fingernails tapping at the window, sharp staccato against the glass. Sean thinks of a thousand different things to say, but none of them seem strong enough to break through the wall of silence stretching between them. After a few minutes the sky darkens in shades of gray, and Sean is glad that they took a cab because the first telltale pricks of rain can be heard on the roof.
They spend the entire cab ride not speaking, although there is a lot that Sean thinks they should probably talk about. Orlando taps at the windowpane, fingertips meeting the splashes of water through the glass, staring out into the gloomy gray labyrinth of the city. It is ironic that Orlando is the one taking him to get this tattoo, since Sean is fairly certain that Orlando wants no ties between them, no links to be noted and remarked upon. The tattoos had been Orlando’s idea, of course, but Sean doubted that Orlando had thought of him at the time. If he had, perhaps he would have stayed silent.
Or perhaps not. Sean has long since given up on any hope of predicting Orlando’s behavior, certainly of second-guessing his decisions. He has never questioned Orlando’s attitude towards him, his dismissal of the possibility of them. Because there really were no possibilities and Orlando knew that, so when Orlando decided that they should remain apart and not even try for anything beyond casual friendship, Sean agreed and respected his decision.
It didn’t stop the flirting, or the glances, or the rumors. But gradually it has become an ever-expanding line that neither of them have been willing to cross. There are things to consider, of course, factors that would make any attempt at a non-platonic relationship almost impossible. Sean doesn’t like men, and even his attraction to Orlando didn’t change that. Orlando didn’t want a romantic relationship, a commitment. He wanted to travel the world and ride the wave of stardom that was just now breaking over his head. Sean couldn’t blame him, so he accepted the limitations and watched as their friendship slowly disintegrated.
The tattoo parlor is dubious by Sean’s standards, but he goes along because this is Orlando’s choice, even though Orlando has grown even more distant and is back at the window, watching the hard, cold rain pricking the sidewalks and the cars and the rushing pedestrians. Every so often he rubs absently at his arm, as if unconsciously aware of the link about to be forged, and Sean can see the dark stain of ink on skin as Orlando’s wrist emerges from the concealing cloth. Eventually he wanders over to help the artist make sense of the drawing, sliding his sleeve up to offer an example.
If the artist thinks that getting matching tattoos of a foreign symbol is strange, she keeps her opinion to herself. Then again, this is New York, and they are probably not the oddest patrons among her clientele. She bustles about preparing her tools, and Sean catches himself admiring her and looks away, remembering who he is here with, only to see Orlando watching him, emotions evident in the depths of dark eyes.
Sean coughs and moves to unbutton his shirt to cover his embarrassment, but Orlando’s fingers stop him, resting lightly over his. Sean lets his hands drop away, allowing Orlando to pull the buttons one-at-a-time through the holes. Orlando works slowly, his eyes locked on Sean’s, ignoring the artist who hovers patiently nearby. Sean knows perfectly well what this little demonstration is about, sees the challenge and possessive jealousy in Orlando’s gaze as their eyes send silent communications. Orlando is claiming him even though Sean is not his to claim, and Sean allows it because he sees the restless vulnerability in Orlando’s eyes, and because having that hot protective defiance focused on him gives him a thrill.
Orlando removes Sean’s shirt, stepping in close to take it as Sean shrugs the fabric from his shoulders, nearly brushing against his cheek before retreating to the window, his point made. And the message has definitely been sent; Sean can see the slight twitch at the corners of the artist’s lips as she fights a smile. Sean watches in fascination as the first jab of the needle pricks his skin, breaking through and leaving a dark stain behind, a pinprick no larger than the hole in his shirt, which Orlando is now examining in the faint gray light from the window.
The artist is good, quick and talented, and soon enough Sean is standing, moving his arm gingerly and accepting his shirt back from Orlando. Orlando pays, and Sean knows better than to argue, so he smiles and thanks the artist, who smiles back, eyes still laughing. Then they are outside, and the rain has stopped so Orlando decides to walk back to his hotel, hailing a cab for Sean.
There is another moment of awkwardness, Orlando standing oddly uncomfortable with his hands in his pockets, and then he smiles faintly, turns around and walks away, leaving Sean staring after him. And Sean feels a tiny pinprick, sharp as a needle or a drop of New York rain, stabbing at his heart. But they have both chosen to walk away from this, and they will both live with the consequences. So he smiles once, with all of the words he never said slowly fading and disappearing inside of him, and gets into the cab, feeling a twinge more painful than any tattoo at watching Orlando walk away.
Pairing: SB/OB
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: This is a complete work of fiction, no disrespect intended.
Notes: This story is a response to the ‘Sean’s tattoo’ challenge thrown out by Cally. It didn’t turn out at all the way I had expected, and I’m not sure whether to apologize for that or not. I am indebted greatly to Cyndi for editing through my muddled tenses and trimming away my extra words. Thank you.
Archived: CTB 3/23/03
“You have a hole in your shirt.” Those are the first words out of Orlando’s mouth, said with an outrageous grin that quickly fades to an uncertain smile. Sean isn’t quite sure of how to respond to this statement. He had been expecting something more mundane, a standard welcome with an opening for polite query, perhaps. Trivialities. Instead, he gets Orlando, with his blunt, honest, uncensored thoughts, reminding Sean of all the things that Orlando is and is not, and Sean’s greeting and exchange of pleasantries is forgotten.
He finally responds, with a smile because he hasn’t thought of any words yet, and looks down at himself. He is still in comfortable worn cotton, shirt and slacks, not quite warm enough to protect him from the oppressive chill of the city. He isn’t dressed for New York, really. Orlando is, looking sleek and trendy, although he’s probably not much warmer than Sean.
“Right here,” Orlando says, pointing to Sean’s chest, and yes, there is a tiny hole there, a pinprick of skin showing through. He looks up and shrugs: still smiling, still not speaking. Orlando smiles back, looking less and less confident with each passing moment that Sean remains silent. He tries to step away, which finally breaks Sean’s paralysis and brings him to act, reaching out to pull Orlando into an awkward hug. It stays awkward, even after Orlando relaxes slightly into Sean’s embrace, because there is still a lot between them and most of it isn’t comfortable.
Orlando smells like cucumber melon, a fresh scent seemingly at odds with his upscale clothes. It clashes with Sean’s Dolce & Gabbana, and Sean suddenly feels as if he is the one who smells wrong: forced masculinity and overpowering chemicals. Orlando doesn’t seem to notice, or if he does he is too polite to say anything. Or, Sean thinks with a grim smile, he’s afraid to push his luck after the shirt comment and is saving it up for later.
The hug is beyond awkward now; both of them are standing stiffly in each other’s arms, tense and frozen. Finally Sean lets go. As soon as he does, Orlando is several feet away, arms crossed defensively over his chest, closing himself off. Sean isn’t really surprised, but he is slightly disappointed.
They take a cab to the tattoo parlor, because Orlando claims that it is too far to walk. The only noise comes from Orlando’s fingernails tapping at the window, sharp staccato against the glass. Sean thinks of a thousand different things to say, but none of them seem strong enough to break through the wall of silence stretching between them. After a few minutes the sky darkens in shades of gray, and Sean is glad that they took a cab because the first telltale pricks of rain can be heard on the roof.
They spend the entire cab ride not speaking, although there is a lot that Sean thinks they should probably talk about. Orlando taps at the windowpane, fingertips meeting the splashes of water through the glass, staring out into the gloomy gray labyrinth of the city. It is ironic that Orlando is the one taking him to get this tattoo, since Sean is fairly certain that Orlando wants no ties between them, no links to be noted and remarked upon. The tattoos had been Orlando’s idea, of course, but Sean doubted that Orlando had thought of him at the time. If he had, perhaps he would have stayed silent.
Or perhaps not. Sean has long since given up on any hope of predicting Orlando’s behavior, certainly of second-guessing his decisions. He has never questioned Orlando’s attitude towards him, his dismissal of the possibility of them. Because there really were no possibilities and Orlando knew that, so when Orlando decided that they should remain apart and not even try for anything beyond casual friendship, Sean agreed and respected his decision.
It didn’t stop the flirting, or the glances, or the rumors. But gradually it has become an ever-expanding line that neither of them have been willing to cross. There are things to consider, of course, factors that would make any attempt at a non-platonic relationship almost impossible. Sean doesn’t like men, and even his attraction to Orlando didn’t change that. Orlando didn’t want a romantic relationship, a commitment. He wanted to travel the world and ride the wave of stardom that was just now breaking over his head. Sean couldn’t blame him, so he accepted the limitations and watched as their friendship slowly disintegrated.
The tattoo parlor is dubious by Sean’s standards, but he goes along because this is Orlando’s choice, even though Orlando has grown even more distant and is back at the window, watching the hard, cold rain pricking the sidewalks and the cars and the rushing pedestrians. Every so often he rubs absently at his arm, as if unconsciously aware of the link about to be forged, and Sean can see the dark stain of ink on skin as Orlando’s wrist emerges from the concealing cloth. Eventually he wanders over to help the artist make sense of the drawing, sliding his sleeve up to offer an example.
If the artist thinks that getting matching tattoos of a foreign symbol is strange, she keeps her opinion to herself. Then again, this is New York, and they are probably not the oddest patrons among her clientele. She bustles about preparing her tools, and Sean catches himself admiring her and looks away, remembering who he is here with, only to see Orlando watching him, emotions evident in the depths of dark eyes.
Sean coughs and moves to unbutton his shirt to cover his embarrassment, but Orlando’s fingers stop him, resting lightly over his. Sean lets his hands drop away, allowing Orlando to pull the buttons one-at-a-time through the holes. Orlando works slowly, his eyes locked on Sean’s, ignoring the artist who hovers patiently nearby. Sean knows perfectly well what this little demonstration is about, sees the challenge and possessive jealousy in Orlando’s gaze as their eyes send silent communications. Orlando is claiming him even though Sean is not his to claim, and Sean allows it because he sees the restless vulnerability in Orlando’s eyes, and because having that hot protective defiance focused on him gives him a thrill.
Orlando removes Sean’s shirt, stepping in close to take it as Sean shrugs the fabric from his shoulders, nearly brushing against his cheek before retreating to the window, his point made. And the message has definitely been sent; Sean can see the slight twitch at the corners of the artist’s lips as she fights a smile. Sean watches in fascination as the first jab of the needle pricks his skin, breaking through and leaving a dark stain behind, a pinprick no larger than the hole in his shirt, which Orlando is now examining in the faint gray light from the window.
The artist is good, quick and talented, and soon enough Sean is standing, moving his arm gingerly and accepting his shirt back from Orlando. Orlando pays, and Sean knows better than to argue, so he smiles and thanks the artist, who smiles back, eyes still laughing. Then they are outside, and the rain has stopped so Orlando decides to walk back to his hotel, hailing a cab for Sean.
There is another moment of awkwardness, Orlando standing oddly uncomfortable with his hands in his pockets, and then he smiles faintly, turns around and walks away, leaving Sean staring after him. And Sean feels a tiny pinprick, sharp as a needle or a drop of New York rain, stabbing at his heart. But they have both chosen to walk away from this, and they will both live with the consequences. So he smiles once, with all of the words he never said slowly fading and disappearing inside of him, and gets into the cab, feeling a twinge more painful than any tattoo at watching Orlando walk away.